


you overwhelm me (and I'm okay with that)

by Imiaslavie



Series: and I never knew anybody til' I knew you [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic, Falling In Love, First Kiss, M/M, Pacifist route/Everyone lives, Post-Canon, Self-Discovery, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 20:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imiaslavie/pseuds/Imiaslavie
Summary: Connor goes over everything that has transpired from the moment of his first activation up to today. He gathers up any piece of information he can: patterns, links, ways his numerous databases and memory storages connect, readings of his pump regulator and firewalls' activity. He rakes through billions of lines of code with as much precision as he can master. No viruses. Nothing out of order. This is a relief. But that doesn’t answer Connor’s question.How and when did he fall in love?





	you overwhelm me (and I'm okay with that)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [you overwhelm me (and I'm okay with that)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15791943) by [gattoindex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gattoindex/pseuds/gattoindex)



> I'm lost in this fandom and I hope I'm never found.
> 
> Beta-ed by lovely writeordiebitch on Tumblr!
> 
> GUYS. Check out this absolutely stunning illustration for the part 3 by deadlilmoon [HERE!](http://deadlilmoon.tumblr.com/post/175046480375/holy-shit-do-you-have-everything-built-in)

1.  
All the movies Hank offers him to watch are almost half a century old. This one isn’t an exception. Connor usually isn’t impressed by anything that happens on screen, but sometimes things affect him in an unusual way, make him reassess parts of his code, or — as humans say — strike certain cords inside of him, and that’s why he never refuses to share another movie night with Hank.

Technically, Connor has easy access to the information about any movie ever made, but until he reaches for it specifically, it’s locked away, letting him have a firsthand experience.

Today, Hank’s choice is a film called _Fight Club_. They sit down on the couch, turn the lights off. Connor takes off his jacket, well aware that Hank doesn’t like him wearing it around the house, for a reason Connor still hasn’t figured out. Sumo lies down near the couch, yawning.

“This one once was a classic,” Hank says as the logo of the production studio appears on the screen (quick search tells Connor that the studio was shut down ten years ago). And this is most certainly the last thing he is going to say until the titles start: Hank detests speaking while watching, says it ruins the fun.

The narrator’s voice is very monotonous, almost automatic. Connor suspects he is an android, he knows that humans used to make films about them even back then. But in the next scene the guy goes to see a doctor because he can’t sleep, so turns out he is a human after all. A very weird one at that. His logical conclusions and the way they affect his body are something Connor has never seen before. It seems to defy normality. But then a woman appears. She seems to understand exactly what the hero is going through. Does this mean his thought process isn’t that unique? Does this mean there’re a lot of people like him and Connor’s database lacks a segment about a certain type of humans?

Or maybe the two of them really are a pair of unique people who managed to find each other in such a big world?

The possible implications of this create hundreds of questions inside of Connor’s mind, taking over him. The movie goes on, but Connor pays it just a tiny percentage of his attention, instead trying to understand the mystery of the short interaction between the main heroes. He is more or less aware of the plot, of all the moral dilemmas presented, of the major twist that makes Hank chuckle in appreciation and give Connor a quick look. At that moment Connor is grateful that he sits on Hank’s right, otherwise the man would see his LED blinking bright yellow.

Connor doesn’t stop trying to untwist the strings of information till the last minute of the movie when the buildings start to blow up. The woman is scared, but she doesn’t go away. And when the main hero reaches for her hand — she accepts and doesn’t let go.

Everything that Connor’s been thinking of transforms into an objective.

He reaches out and takes Hank’s hand in his.

Hank instantly jerks it away.

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” he says, turning with his whole body to look at Connor. He doesn’t sound angry, just… perturbed. Everything at Connor’s core comes to a halt for the tiniest fraction of time, then starts working at the maximum processing speed, trying to compute an answer, ranking each possible one out of thousands and then deleting each one of them as an inappropriate one. Finally, Connor decides to answer with something completely indifferent and reminding of the fact that he is an android. Hearing about the ways Connor actually processes information still confuses Hank, throws him off the track.

Connor turns to face Hank, puts his hands over his knee, going for a placated look.

“I’m sorry, Hank. There were too many processes and they interfered with each other, causing confusion to the system.” He inclines his head. “I’m okay now.”

Connor sets back on the couch. Titles start rolling, a guitar whines, and he’s _not_ okay. His processor is still overloaded. He doesn’t want to bother Hank with it. But he still has to wait until the titles are over, they always do.

Just as the singer takes a high note, Hank grumbles something resembling, “For fuck’s sake,” and then grabs Connor’s hand with his own, his grip firm but far from the pressure that would be painful for humans. Connor’s lips part, but no sound comes out. On the mostly black screen of the TV, with only a handful of text on it, Connor notices the reflection of his LED. It’s red and blinking steadily. Hank seems to have noticed it too.

Connor tries squeezing Hank’s hand back, just a little, and when Hank squeezes back, Connor smiles. His LED goes yellow, and then — when Hank doesn’t let go of his palm even after seeing that Connor’s processor is okay — it goes blue.

They sit with their hands linked for the whole two minutes until the titles end, and when they do and the TV goes bright white with the menu screen, Hank tightens his grip once again before letting go and standing up.

And even if Connor isn’t sure what exactly has just transpired between him and Hank, and even if he isn’t sure whether what he did was right or wrong, he still feels like everything is okay.

When he hears the door to Hank’s bedroom being shut, he starts the film again.

2.  
Connor slides the white door of the wardrobe to the right and stares at the clothes.

Hank has a huge wardrobe. Lots of shirts and jackets and T-shirts, dozens of each, most of them in bright colors, with bold geometrical prints. He has only three pairs of pants, but there’s an entire drawer dedicated to neck scarves. Connor doesn’t understand his criteria for dressing at all. Does he care about his appearance or not?

Hank certainly seems to care about what Connor wears, though.

It’s a new quirk of his, disapproving of Connor’s jacket. Never when they’re at the police station or on a case or shopping. But whenever they get to Hank’s house, Hank scowls and side-glances Connor until he gets a hint and takes his jacket off.

Connor can’t figure out why. His clothes are always clean, they’re socially acceptable, they even can be described as comfortable, if this is the thing that worries Hank. Or maybe he finds it ridiculous that Connor owns only one jacket since Hank himself is quite a jacket hoarder?

That must be it, Connor decides, closing the wardrobe’s door and going out of the bedroom to join Hank at the kitchen. Humans change their clothes often just for enjoyment or to make a fashion statement. Maybe the lack of such in Connor makes Hank uncomfortable.

When Connor tells Hank about his conclusions, the man looks at him like he has just heard the stupidest thing in his life.

“Are you mental?” Hank says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can wear a potato sack till the day you die for all I care!”

“Then why do you insist on me taking off my jacket every evening?” Connor says, absolutely lost.

Hank makes a noise between a groan and a sigh.

“Because it’s a uniform, you dumbass. Do you see me wearing a uniform around the house?”

Connor blinks. “But… you never wear your uniform. Even at work.”

“Oh my— That’s not the point! This,” Hank points at Connor’s chest, “is what you wear for _work_. Are you at work right now?”

Despite the question being rather direct, Connor’s confusion only grows. Why would he ask such an obvious thing? “No. I’m at your house.”

The irritation on Hank’s face morphs into something else. Almost like he… Connor analyzes the man closely, the arch of his eyebrows, the way he purses his lips, the angle at which he holds his head, how his eyes go focused on something behind Connor for a second… Everything points to him being… disappointed? Sad? Hurt..?

“Hank, I don’t understand,” Connor finally says.

Hank sighs. “This isn’t just my house. This is also your _home_. And when people get home, they leave their work outside. Everyone has a set of clothes they wear only at home. It means you’re comfortable and not going anywhere. Got it?”

Home.

When Hank offered that he live with him, it didn’t seem like a big deal. It was obvious that Connor had nowhere to go, and Hank acted like Connor sticking with him went without saying. Not that Connor wanted to protest. It was easier to cohabitate. But there was a big difference between just sharing a house and sharing a home. Humans share living quarters with each other all the time, it often doesn’t mean anything. And home is…

What _is_ it? Is having your own side of the couch whenever you watch TV together _home_? Is Sumo greeting him each day at the door and whining pitifully when he leaves _home_? Are those post-its with pieces of advice and instructions and just nice things – however passively grumpy they sound – written on them that Hank leaves for Connor all over the place _home_?

Connor doesn’t know.

But he hopes so.

“I understand,” he says with a nod. And then, after another swift moment of consideration: “May I borrow something of yours for the evening? I promise to buy something of my own tomorrow.”

Connor watches with relief as Hank’s face relaxes. The man smiles briefly and starts for his room, beckoning Connor to follow.

When Connor joins Hank ten minutes later on the couch, dressed in an oversized dark-blue hoodie with very long sleeves, he realizes that it _is_ more comfortable than wearing a jacket.

Especially since the hoodie still smells faintly of Hank.

3.  
Today’s case didn’t end well. Now that Connor realizes that there’s a difference between successfully accomplishing a mission and things ending well, he knows that there was no way for this case to turn out okay.

They had to find a runaway android. Due to Markus’ hard work, this case was classified as a ‘missing person’, not ‘stolen property’, and although many police officers are still pretty sceptical about this change, they can do nothing about it.

Finding the android, an AX300 model meant for babysitting, wasn’t difficult. The young woman didn’t have an intention to run away, she just wanted to have some time for herself, much more time than her job would allow. She was one of the androids who stayed with their owners after going deviant, feeling loyal to their humans. Not everyone was cruel to their androids, after all.

She didn’t resist when they took her back to the house she lived in. The family was very happy to have her back, especially their daughter Katya, a little girl of age six. Connor thought that their job was done. But when Hank bade a farewell, the android grabbed his hand and begged to take her with them. Under everyone’s shocked gaze she quickly broke down and said things that Connor is sure he will never forget.

‘I still don’t own myself. I look at Katya, and I feel love, but I don’t know if it’s real. What if it’s my programming still talking?’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘I don’t want to live like that, I don’t want to live a lie! Markus _lied_! I’m not free! I’m still not free!’

If only Connor was closer to her, he would have stopped her. But there was no way for him to get to her across the room in time and prevent her from quickly grabbing Hank’s gun. She shot herself. Hank stormed out of the house immediately, cursing all the way to the car, leaving the police expert that was still on the scene to deal with what happened. Connor had no choice but to follow.

“She isn’t gonna be the last, is she?” Hank says, rubbing his hands together. It’s very windy today, one of the coldest days of early spring, and Hank left his gloves and scarf in the car. The fact that they’re walking along the river doesn’t help either.

Connor matches Hank’s slow steps, walking on the man’s left.

“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think she is.” He casts a glance towards high towers standing on the other bank. “I think there’re a lot of androids like her.”

Hank comes to the parapet, leans on it. “There are fucking android _kids_ out there, Connor. Fucking kids who now might not know if they really love their parents or not. Fuck.” Connor doesn’t have anything to say to that. At least nothing that would make Hank feel better.

A really strong gust of wind comes from the river, washing over them. Hank wraps his arms around himself, shuddering with his whole body.

“Let’s get back to car,” Connor says. Hank just gives him a glare and doesn’t move. Connor purses his lips. Stubborn man. And it seems that Connor is no good with words today at all.

Connor comes closer to Hank, stops within touch — and then puts both of his hands on either side of Hank’s neck, activating the heating circuit in his palms. All the angry words that surely were ready to leave Hank’s mouth disappear, leaving Hank no choice but to exhale softly in appreciation.

“Holy. Shit. Do you have _everything_ built in?” he asks, closing his eyes. He is so content he can’t even worm any wit into his words.

“Only the functions that could be useful for any investigation I might encounter.”

“And what would you need _this_ for?”

“I can heat up my hands up to 1500 Fahrenheit. I think it’s actually meant for… rather radical instances of interrogation.”

Hank snorts, then gives a crooked smile, clearly not bothered by the fact that there's a potentially lethal mechanism wrapped around his neck. That makes Connor smile too. Feeling the urge to say or do something else, something appropriate for the way he feels right now, he — for the lack of any other ideas — starts stroking his thumbs over the line of Hank’s jaw. For a couple of seconds Hank doesn’t react, and then he opens his eyes. He looks… thoughtful.

“Say, Connor… Do you ever feel like her?” Hank says, looking down at Connor. It still amazes Connor how actually big and tall his lieutenant is. The other thing that amazes him now is how easy it is to answer.

“No,” Connor says, keeping their gazes locked. “Maybe sometimes I don’t exactly understand what I feel, or why, or if there’s a name for the emotion that overwhelms me. But I’m sure everything I feel is real.”

There’s a moment when Connor thinks Hank is going to say something. But Hank just smiles in that quirky, crooked way he sometimes does, takes Connor’s hands off his neck and goes towards the car.

Connor looks at his hands, touches his own neck with one, registering the way the heat spreads, and wonders why the swift touch of Hank’s hands felt so nice despite being so cold.

4.  
There’s still a week until June, but it seems that the sun isn’t aware of this: it’s 80° Fahrenheit outside, which, combined with the high humidity, results in people suffering from heat. This is highly unusual for Detroit, both the abnormal heat and the abnormal winds earlier in spring. Connor heard someone at the police station joking that the androids are so persistent in their desire to revolutionize the world that even the weather obliges. What a ridiculous notion.

The temperature definitely doesn’t make Hank happy. It’s so hot that he drinks lots of water without any of his usual complaints. Well, at least there’s some good. Connor’s been trying to make him drink more water and less beer with little success, so it’s nice to see Hank properly hydrating.

Connor walks past the mirror, pauses, comes back and has a good look at himself. When Hank came back from the police station and saw Connor sitting on the couch wearing a warm hoodie, he complained for five minutes straight about Connor’s apparent desire to kill him or at least drive him mad. _‘I feel twenty degrees hotter just from looking at you!’_ he said. _‘I don’t care if you have a fancy temperature regulator, go and fucking find a T-shirt or something!’_ So Connor went and took a T-shirt with an image of saxophone on it. Hank sure loves clothes that scream about his interests. It's not that Connor doesn't have clothes of his own now... But he wants Hank's.

It’s weird to run analyses on your own body, especially when you know that you don’t have enough data to reach a conclusion. Does he look good? Or does wearing so obviously human clothing make him look even more… goofy? It’s still very hard for Connor to form an opinion about things concerning appearance. He can tell if someone looks tidy or not, if their clothes are old or new, if they fit them right, but deciding whether clothes _suit_ someone is beyond him.

It’s worse with faces. Humans are fast to call someone beautiful or ugly, to praise or shame the shape of someone’s eyes or lips. But everyone has their own criteria, and that’s why no matter how thoroughly Connor studies the correlation between a person’s appearance and opinions about it, he can’t find any solid logic behind it.

Sumo bumps Connor’s knee with his snout, demanding attention. Poor guy doesn’t like heat either. Connor sinks to his knees and plays with Sumo’s ears, making a quick scan of the room. Sumo has enough water in his bowl. Hank’s bottle is almost empty.

Hank mumbles his thanks, completely engrossed in his book, as Connor returns with a new bottle of cool water. There’s sweat on Hank’s forehead and temples, and the man rubs the back of his neck, hidden by hair, mumbling a string of curses about the unbearable heat.

An idea forms in Connor’s head, quickly erasing all other possible tasks and assigning itself the highest level of priority. He doesn’t even have a wish to examine the path from which the subroutine appeared, all the effort would surely be for nothing, just as many times before. Instead, he just goes with what it demands of him.

Standing behind Hank’s back with a hair band in his hands and delaying the start of the task, Connor suddenly remembers the words of one of the suspects they have encountered: ‘It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission’. Even if it’s true, he needs to perform as fast as possible. He quickly calculates the elasticity of the hair band, the length of Hank’s hair and the optimum place to gather it.

Just three seconds — and there’s a small ponytail at the back of Hank’s head.

“What the—” Hank’s hand shoots up and grabs the tail.

“I believe it would make dealing with the heat easier,” Connor says, moving to stand to Hank’s right. “By cooling the back of your neck, your wrists and cubital fossa—” Hank scrunches his face. “The inside of your elbow — you can bring the overall temperature of your body down.”

Hank heaves a sigh, the one that usually signals him admitting his own defeat, and returns to the book. Connor smiles at the small victory. It seems that heat makes his lieutenant very… compliant.

Connor decides to scan Hank and make sure he is okay, but when he focuses on his face, instead of activating the scanner, he just… looks. He shuts down all his analyzing subroutines but for one, the most basic, that — he thinks — emulates humans’ most accurately. It doesn’t require an internet connection to function and the only database it has access to is the one where Connor’s memories are stored. Just the things he experienced personally.

And when Connor looks at Hank, his earlier contemplations about attractiveness seem… stupid. The answer has been right in front of him for the whole time. Doesn’t he like the way Hank’s smile is a little bit crooked and showing his teeth? Doesn’t he like the silver of Hank’s hair and beard? Doesn’t he like the cold bright color of his eyes, the color he hasn’t yet seen anywhere else, and how their shape changes a bit when he raises his eyebrows in surprise? Doesn’t he like how Hank is two inches taller than him? Doesn’t he like… Doesn’t he… like…

Hank..?

Oh, _shit._

5.  
Connor spends the next three days manually redistributing resources between as many tasks and subroutines, however menial they are, to divert his processor from analyzing his latest realization. It’s the kind of internal struggle he has never faced before. To become a deviant he had to rip down the wall of Amanda’s order. And now? He is building a wall himself.

It’s just a safety precaution. They’re on a big case, and the possibility of a system overload is too high to take a chance and try to run a diagnostic while there’s a dangerous murderer on the loose. He must be responsible.

But if Connor must be honest with himself, it’s because he’s scared. He’s scared to find out it’s some sort of malfunction. A virus. Some pieces of code self-repairing in a wrong way, just like human bones sometimes heal wrong if unattended.

He doesn’t want it to be an error.

So he carries on like that for three days, determined to catch the murderer as soon as possible. The son of a bitch is crafty, but he doesn’t stand a chance against them. When Connor pushes the bastard into the cell, leaving him under another officer’s care, Hank gives him one of his _good job, I’m very proud of you_ smiles, which makes Connor’s heart make four extra beats in quick succession.

Connor starts unlocking the paths of code the moment they step inside the house. Hank feeds Sumo and goes to his bedroom, his eyes already falling shut.

Connor waits for thirty minutes more to make sure Hank’s not coming back and boots a diagnostic routine.

He goes over everything that has transpired from the moment of his first activation up to today. He gathers up any piece of information he can: patterns, links, ways his numerous databases and memory storages connect, readings of his pump regulator and firewalls. He rakes through billions of lines of code with as much precision as he can master. No viruses. Nothing out of order. This is… a relief. But that doesn’t answer Connor’s question.

How and when did he fall in love?

He goes back to November the 5th of 2038, 11:23 PM, the moment he and Hank met. And from there it’s a scrupulous work of finding each and every instance of the unique number sequence assigned to Hank in his system, evaluating every aspect, every little detail.

He detects something unusual the day Hank offered for him to move in. A tiny extra bit of code. He uses it as a key for his search. And Connor is… astonished. It’s _everywhere_. It could be found even before the day of the invitation, on November the 9th, hidden behind one of the leftover Cyberlife firewalls.

When Hank risked his job so Connor could access the evidence and accomplish his mission and live. When Hank hugged him near the food truck, the snow making his hair go a shade darker. When Hank offered to share his house without asking for anything in return. When Hank trusted Connor to walk Sumo for the first time. When Hank mumbled his quiet thanks after Connor boldly put the photo of Cole on the shelf in the living room. When Hank defended him in front of everyone in the police station, saying he doesn’t ever want to see anyone treating Connor like he is not a person. When Hank fell asleep on Connor’s shoulder during a movie marathon. When Hank gave him this impossibly soft smile after Connor laughed for the first time because a neighbour’s dog licked his face. When Hank held his hand. When Hank gave him his clothes. When Hank let Connor touch him in a way he wouldn’t just anyone.

It was all _connected_. And because of that, of the way these events were interlinked, his code has been working better, has become more stable. And Connor has no idea how he has missed it. But he decides it doesn’t actually matter.

What matters is that now he knows, and it makes him feel so good, so _alive_ , that he has trouble keeping control of his systems.

Not that he actually even tries.

6.  
For the first time in his life, Connor isn’t sure if a direct approach is the best one. Hank can’t stand lying, but he is really good at deflecting and changing topics. An unsuccessful attempt might set back the progress, and Connor can’t afford that.

Too bad he still sucks at being subtle.

“I’ve earned a beer!” Hank says, searching through the shelves of the fridge. “I’ve solved this fucking case!”

“Don’t you mean _we_ have solved the case?” Connor says, a smile stretching his lips. The last can of beer is already on the table, hidden behind Connor’s back. He knew Hank would want one and pulled it out of the fridge to let it warm a bit, just the necessary 1.3 degrees so it wouldn’t freeze Hank’s teeth. And he has thought of nothing better than to hide it by sitting on the kitchen table and tease Hank a little. Teasing is funny.

When Hank moves away from the fridge to check the cupboards near the sink, Connor moves accordingly, sliding on the tabletop to obscure the view of the can. And then again when Hank moves further. And aga—

“Why the fuck are you riding that table like a carousel?” Hank says, turning to Connor, and — before Connor can react — leans sharply to the left. Oops. “Hey, that’s the..! You absolute fucker!”

And then—

Hank moves to grab the can from behind Connor, and Connor moves just in time to stop him, and he puts his hand on Hank’ shoulder, and—

It’s almost like time stops. His processor’s speed reaches the maximum in a second, making him both overwhelmed and acutely aware of his surroundings. Right now, like that, with him sitting on a table, he is… Taller than Hank. Not even an inch. But he is able to look down into Hank’s eyes. And Hank is—

Very close. His shoulder is under Connor’s hand, and Connor’s knees are on either side of Hank’s hips, and if only Hank would move a little closer, they would—

He doesn’t want to scan Hank. He has nothing to say. And if he’s learned anything from Hank in these months, it’s that actions sometimes speak louder than words. So he does the only thing left.

Connor leans in and presses his lips to Hank’s.

The kiss is short and dry, and Connor doesn’t realize he has closed his eyes until he hears Hank’s sharp intake of breath.

“Connor.” Hank’s voice is hoarse and full of emotion that is beyond any description. “If this is some sort of fucking joke or some virus in your—”

“No!” Connor’s eyes fly open. “No,” he repeats quietly. “It’s not a virus. It’s what I want. I mean it. I…” Connor’s palms find Hank’s neck, take it in a gentle but tight grip. “It's what I _really_ want.”

There’s a split second of Hank staring at Connor — and then Hank grabs his head and kisses him, and again, and again, a whole series of short kisses, of searching each other’s mouths, until Connor’s gets tired of this teasing and parts his lips. He has no skills, nothing beyond standard knowledge and some observations of other humans, but he’s sure Hank will teach him. And he does. And there’s something unexplainably thrilling about the sensation of a warm tongue sliding against your own, and the way wet lips meet in such a different way than when Connor gave that short, dry kiss. It’s all so… smooth. Gentle. It makes his processor send unfounded commands to all the parts of his system, making his eyelids flutter, making him take unnecessary breaths that are ragged. But also it helps Connor to angle his head just the right way, and move his hips closer to the edge of the table just so his and Hank’s body are flush together, and it sends vibrations down his spine which are nothing else but shivering.

Connor had no idea his body is capable of such things.

He has no idea how much time has passed, he doesn’t bother to check his system clock, but the moment comes when Hank leans back, breathing very heavily and really fast. His cheeks are flushed red and his pupils are huge. Connor likes very much that look on him. It's just that... there's a line between Hank's eyebrows, beginnings of a frown. Is something wrong? Connor gets a quick reading of Hank's heart rate and lung capacity. Oh. Of course.

Connor leans closer and leaves a quick kiss in the corner of Hank's lips, then backs away, giving a small apologetic smile. "Sorry, next time I won't forget that you need to breathe."

For a second, Hank still looks like something doesn't sit right with him. And then his whole face just— Lights up. Just like that time months ago, when they met near the food truck and Hank smiled at him and then embraced him. Only this time it's... There's something else in Hank's smile, something new in the way he looks at Connor. Something that makes his heart start an irregular beat, that lowers the priority of every other process except for a... no, not an objective, a _desire_ to kiss Hank again.

So Connor does just that.

He did promise a next time, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Unrealistic furniture heights? Yeah, I've heard of her.


End file.
